


Like The Bullet Under Your Skin

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Challenge: Inception Reverse Bang, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an emergency plan, or like Arthur likes to say, <i>continuity plan</i>, which is exactly the same as emergency plan to Eames; equivalent to plan B. The point is, they both mean the same: they’re fucked unless they come up with something. (Also known as the story about easily-won trust, love gone pear-shaped and the hardship of growing up. And bullets – lots and lots of bullets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like The Bullet Under Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> My [i_reversebang](http://community.livejournal.com/i_reversebang/) entry, written for Cosmiko_ling's [art](http://cosmiko-ling.livejournal.com/60010.html). Prompt: _Eames piggybacks an injured-but-still-BAMF!Arthur._

The pain blossoms in his chest, this sharp, bright pain and he’s falling down, he’s falling and he’s down. The ground is hard against his cheek and his vision is swimming; he can hardly breathe, his lungs are rattling in his chest and he can taste blood in his mouth, blood on his tongue and this isn’t the way this was supposed to go, this isn’t the way—

And Arthur is there, next to him, on the ground; grimacing as if pain – and he is, Eames thinks, he is, that’s how it all—

“—Eames, Eames, no. Eames—“ Eames’ hand is between him and Arthur, lying limp on the ground, and he can’t move, can’t do anything, and the blood is filling his mouth, bursting up and Arthur takes his hand – he feels nothing, the pain has numbed away, he feels nothing and no, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go—

“Eames, hang on; come on, just hang on—“ Arthur is saying and it all fades away, loud noise, quiet noise, no noise – everything fades away.

 

 

 **iv. The end**

 

 

(It’s the dead of the night. It’s the dead of the night and it had been raining heavily, before. The asphalt glimmers under the sparse lights like a sea of crystals, and the air is heavy. The streets are soundless, the windows are light-less and the buildings are tall, stoic, sturdy. He’s looking for something, someone. It’s this clawing inside; it’s this rush in his veins, the bitter taste in his mouth. It’s the empty streets and no way in, no way out. It’s the dead of the night.)

 

 

To Eames’ credit, the job starts fairly easy. But just like every other job lately, it goes pear-shaped soon enough. He doesn’t wish to voice his condescension, they all know he _said so_ , so there is no point making the point across. Besides, he’s too busy keeping himself alive long enough to pull the distraction and give Arthur, the mark, and their extractor, Grayson, the time they need to finish the job properly.

“You should go,” he yells, bullets flying through the windows of the small warehouse, one flying a few inches away from Eames’ shoulder, too close for comfort. Arthur nods curtly, brows furrowed in concentration – it’s the situation; Eames knows the look, has seen it on Arthur multiple times during the last years, the one that’s full of suspicion, calculations and carefully masked apprehension – and their eyes connect for the briefest moment.

Arthur looks at him, like he has done for the last four jobs after they decided to end their whatever – with a longing of sorts, with want and dare and million things swirling in his eyes– and Eames looks straight back, not even blinking. Arthur has seen it all; has seen every habit of Eames’, has learned every mistake Eames has ever made, every success, and Arthur knows Eames can give them the time they need. There’s still the trust, even if it wasn’t enough and it doesn’t matter that they’re at odds; they’re still working together since they’re the best, and they only work with the best.

More bullets whiz by and Eames crouches, getting under cover. “Go,” he says again and it’s not like Arthur to second guess the game plan at this point. Sure, it’s an emergency plan, or like Arthur likes to say, _continuity plan_ , which is exactly the same as emergency plan to Eames; equivalent to plan B. The point is, they both mean the same: they’re fucked unless they come up with something.

They’ve been under fire way too often during the few last jobs and Arthur is starting to spin ideas, conspiracies and conclusions, just like Eames is. It’s in the way Arthur’s brown eyes remember, speculate and flicker from one corner to other; it’s the way Arthur’s eyes read Eames’ face like an open book, line after a line, digging deeper effortlessly and Eames doesn’t mind because it’s Arthur. They’re here together, again, being targeted.

And then Arthur nods again, gravely, and takes off. The back door slams closed and Eames is left in the empty space, the gunfire blasting around the other side of the wall and Arthur’s lingering warmth on his side.

 

 

 _“What are you talking about?” Arthur stares at Eames incredulously, all attention focused on him._

 _Eames stares right back, his vision narrowed on Arthur, unsaid words rushing in his ears, making his heart beat wildly out of place. He takes a breath and says as calmly as he’s able, “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about walking away from this, Arthur. This, us – whatever it is we’re doing. That’s just petty and highly sanctimonious of you.”_

 _Arthur freezes, his eyes wide and filled with something Eames once thought he understood. He thought he knew all Arthur’s expressions, every glint of his eyes, every unspoken important thing there was to know. He knows better now._

 _“Is that—Is that what you really—“ Arthur says quietly, and doesn’t finish._

 _Eames sighs, says, “We’ve known each other for a decade and there are days when I actually let myself think about that, only to realise maybe it’s been few years too many.”_

 _Arthur says nothing, but his frown speaks volumes. “Arthur,” Eames says, “the Laos job.”_

 _“Now hold on, if this is about her, I’ve told you—”_

 _“Of course this isn’t about her. I did say she’s in the past and I don’t tend to say things I don’t mean,” Eames clarifies, irritated. “But while we’re on the subject; tell me, Arthur. What am I to you?”_

 _“Excuse me?” Arthur frowns._

 _“What am I to you? What are we?” Eames says. He takes a breath, tries to calm himself down, and asks quietly, “What are we even doing?”_

 _Arthur simply stares at Eames, hand lifting to his face, covering his lips._

 _“What are we, Arthur? What is this?” Eames asks again. He feels angry, and oddly enough, desperate, because they knew from the beginning, didn’t they? They knew it would never be anything other than what it is, knew that they’d never be anything other than they are. And yet, they had to go and try. Eames is so tired of all the secrecy and forgotten promises and most of all, he’s so tired of trying._

 _There’s trust, there’s unspecified affection, there are mutual interests, but everything’s so hard, every single day is full of secrets that can’t handle the daylight, pasts better left behind. What they leave behind they’re finding in front of them, and Eames has tried, he has. He has and he knows Arthur has as well, in all the ways he’s capable. But it isn’t enough, it will never be enough._

 _Eames can’t breathe properly, can’t think properly with Arthur in his space; crowding, cluttering his mind with apprehension and constant, gnawing need, and the chilly warmth Arthur emanates, radiates, confuses, and Eames is just so bloody—_

 _“What do you want from me?” Arthur’s voice is quiet and meek, like he’s been hit in the solar plexus, and in a way he has, Eames thinks, feeling nauseated._

 _They both know what Eames will say, because there is nothing else to be said, even if it’s all a lie. It’s a lie because they both know it takes two to tango._

 _“Something you can’t give me,” he answers. Arthur isn’t going to deny it, just like Eames isn’t going to say he’s at fault himself, as well. There’s too much trying in the wrong places and somehow their wires got crossed the wrong way. In their line of job, where everything needs to work like an oiled machine, everything needs to be well-practiced and everything needs to go without hitches, Eames prefers to keep his private life uncomplicated. And Arthur, Arthur is everything except uncomplicated._

 _There’s only so much complicated Eames can spin. Something has to give._

 _Arthur’s round eyes stare at him, huge and disconcertingly unsure. “So you’re just—what? Are you—“_

 _“It looks like it, yeah,” Eames cuts in. Something loosens in his chest, but the rolling in his stomach gets stronger. There’s so much more to say, so much more to talk about, so much more to do._

 _They stay silent and still._

 

 

  
Eames shoots a man in a blue suit, aiming his gun with steady hands, hitting his stomach and the projection goes down soundlessly; and then another man with a grey suit, running towards him. He's going for the projection's head and the man falls down between one step and another.

From the corner of his vision he sees a woman with a flowered dress, coming briskly closer and he turns; aims and shoots. He shoots and shoots and shoots; projections falling on the ground around him, and more are coming, he knows. Swearing, Eames takes a run around the corner and keeps on walking.

He needs to find a place to hide until the timer runs out and the kicks will happen- there's still too much time left, and he can hear the projections behind him, footsteps echoing on the narrow alley between two buildings.

Remembering the layout of the maze, he turns right, deeper into the connected alleyways, then right again and left, and there's a backdoor, he knows. Eames searches for the right one, gunshots ricocheting off somewhere nearby, and he spares a fleeting moment for the mark, Grayson, and Arthur – and he finds the door, kicks it open quickly, sure that the projections are only one corner away – and shuts the door as quietly as he can.

Eames lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, willing the time to go faster, wondering what's going on one level higher.

Apparently nothing life-changing, since they are still alive despite the unfortunate circumstances, and everything seems to be in place, no inflections from the layer above.

He swipes his palm through his hair and keeps on moving. The shortcut will lead him closer to the edge of the maze, closer to where the others should be, and he fastens his pace. Going through one badly-lit hallway he ends up in another, equally dim one, and he sees the door on the other side of the large room. Reaching the sturdy door, he carefully opens it, hand closing around the knob, twisting gently.

Eames peeks through the small gap, and the alley looks to be clear as far as he's able to see. Opening the door completely, he sneaks out, hastily getting behind a pile of large crates that should shield him from being seen.

Eames contemplates his options, which way he should go in order to make it to the rendezvous point. He concentrates to remember the larger scale of the layout they went through before going under, tries to place all the traps, paradoxes, and shortcuts in the huge maze. It's fairly quiet where he's hiding and he can only hear a general, low buzz behind the building, where a bigger road leads to the docks. Checking that he really is alone, he steps away from his hiding place and gingerly starts walking closer to the road, along the side of the building.

It's too quiet, and he's having a bad feeling about this.

The anticipation is curling into knots in his stomach and the adrenaline is making his heart beat faster – and he should be used to this, used to things going pear-shaped, used to the rush of a shaky survival, but he isn't, and he thinks he never will be. Because if he found himself being too sure, being careless and being on top of this game, he'd be dead sooner than the blink of an eye.

For an acknowledged confidence-man, Eames is also self-conscious enough to not be too confident.

Reaching the end of the alley, he peeks around the corner, body freezing and ready to shoot if necessary. The coast seems to be clear, and he wonders where all the projections are. The gun in his hand feels secure, his finger on the side, ready to pull the trigger, the heavy weight of the handgun comforting.

He checks both ends of the street, eyes roaming in every detail – and he has to appreciate Grayson's attention for the details, since Eames would think they’re real, unless he’d known better – and after confirming it’s as safe as it can be to move, he goes right, moving in the shadows.

With a few long strides he’s at the junction of the two roads, one separating the city landscape from the docks and another leading to the shipyard. He runs fast and doesn’t look around.

 

 

 _“You really think you could ever love_ him _? Love him like you loved me?”_

 _Eames slows his steps and comes to a stop. He’s standing in a dimly lit corridor, skin still buzzing with the tropical heat of Laos, even if the dreamscape holds no warmth like the weather up in reality. The job is a four man job; the extractor is pulling off his heist one floor above, Eames is making his way to the lobby, and Arthur is taking care of the explosives. Except, apparently, he isn’t._

 _“I never—You’re not the person I— You are not her,” Arthur says, his voice quiet and fierce._

 _“Oh, but I am,” the woman says and laughs. Her accent is foreign and her laugh is condescending._

 _Eames leans forward, and through the gap of the door he sees a library of sorts, shelves of books filling his vision – and Arthur, standing still in the middle of the room. Leaning a bit more, Eames’ eyes find a very beautiful woman, sitting on the edge of the study desk. Her black dress matches the curly, tastefully messy hair and the neckline of her dress hangs low enough to show just the right amount of skin. Whoever the woman is, she’s stunning. She’s also a projection, and by the looks of it, she’s Arthur’s projection and that’s not, that’s not something—_

 _“You still love me, I can feel it,” the woman says, sneering. “Arthur, ever the loyal Arthur – loving people who will never love him back.”_

 _Eames keeps as quiet as he’s able, afraid to even breathe. He takes another step and Arthur’s face comes visible. The look on Arthur’s face isn’t what Eames was expecting. Instead of rage, there’s this sadness, this glowing affection, and the look hurts Eames’ chest, touches something deep inside because the woman is right, she’s right. Arthur must love her because Eames can’t remember Arthur ever looking at_ him _in this way._

 _“You are not her,” Arthur says again, his voice only a whisper, the gun steady in his hold._

 _The woman stands up, gets closer, ignoring the muzzle of the gun pressed into her chest. She’s staring at Arthur, head cocked, and lifts one hand to drag along Arthur’s face. Eames’ throat feels tight suddenly, as he watches Arthur closing his eyes and swallowing, unconsciously leaning into her touch. “Oh Arthur, I am very much her.”_

 _“No, you’re not,” Arthur says. He opens his eyes and the soft glow of sadness is replaced by coldness, and he squeezes the trigger with an unwavering hand. The woman goes down, shock on her gorgeous, malicious face – and she blinks out of existence._

 _The silence after the loud sound of Arthur’s gun going off is deafening._

 _Eames opens the door and steps in. He looks at Arthur, who’s staring at the spot where the woman was standing just a moment ago. Arthur stays quiet for a long moment and Eames wonders if this is what going bonkers feels like._

 _“Care to elaborate?” Eames asks after a while, trying to make eye contact. Arthur visibly collects himself, shoulders squaring._

 _It takes a beat more and he says, the tone of his voice impersonal, “Mal.”_

 _Eames swallows. Of course. “Look, I don’t know what your deal was the Cobbs, but—“_

 _“This has never happened before,” Arthur says, eyes far away._

 _“Right. I bet when it happened to Cobb the first time, he had the same look on his face as well,” Eames grunts. It’s not that he’s mad at Arthur, he’s not – there are things in one’s mind that can’t be controlled at all times. But this, this isn’t something that can be overlooked, like Arthur overlooked Cobb’s problems. He takes a deep breath and says, “Come on. We still have a job to do.”_

 _Arthur springs back into awareness, eyes alert, and his gaze roams around the room, as if making sure Cobb’s late wife is really gone._

 _“She’s gone,” Eames says, gentler than he means to._

 _Arthur nods once and checks his gun. “Don’t—“_

 _“I won’t,” Eames says, because what’s it to Cobb? Obviously the former Mrs Cobb made her choice, it doesn’t matter what was before. Besides, unfortunately, Eames knows what it’s like to love and never be loved back._

 _It all comes down to choices – and Eames, Eames always chooses Arthur. Always._

 

 

(It’s the dead of the night. It’s the dead of the night and it’s raining again, getting heavier. It’s suffocating; it’s warm and chilly all the same. It’s the sound of it, thrumming on the ground, one fat drop after another, splashing on the side of his ear, his shirt, on his shoes. It’s the emptiness around, the abandoned streets and dark windows; it’s the dim light fading into the lifeless corners of the buildings. It’s the hollow feeling in his gut, the maddening need to look and search and not finding. It’s the dead of the night. )

 

 

 **iii. The bullets we can’t dodge**

 

 

Reaching the side of the building, Eames breathes out again, surveying his surroundings. It’s still quiet, and he wonders what happened to the low sound of people milling about he heard earlier.

Remembering the spot they decided to meet, he knows where he needs to move from there on. Slowly walking, he goes around the corner and starts fastening his pace, gripping his gun, shoes touching the ground soundlessly with every step he takes, and he hears a sound behind him; someone walking, walking fast and then running, getting closer, and he turns around, gets in the shadows again—

And there’s a man, and another man behind, shooting at him – missing as he ducks at the last moment. Both men are coming close, coming fast, running, and he shoots the one who’s closer and is about to shoot again, but there’s another shot fired somewhere behind him and the projection goes down.

He turns quickly, heart hammering in his chest because he knows projections might attack each other; he’s shared dreams like that, has seen men and women alike tearing each other’s limbs, has seen them shot each other, even eat each other alive – but it’s highly unlikely and so far these projections haven’t acted murderous with each other so that only leaves—

Arthur. Arthur who’s lying on the ground a bare few steps away from him, holding a gun with a grimace.

“Careful there, Eames,” Arthur says, mouth tight with pain. And Eames is relieved to see Arthur, relieved to see he’s alright—and holding onto his calf with his other hand, fingers slick with blood, and this isn’t good, it’s not good at all because Eames can hear from the rush in his ears more movement on the road, closing in on them.

Arthur’s head snaps in the direction of the footsteps; one pair, two pair, no, at least four and Eames moves half in front of Arthur, says, “I’ll take care of this round, shall I?” Without waiting for a terse reply, he crouches slightly and stares at the clearing, waiting patiently for the projections to get closer. As soon as he sees them, he starts shooting.

 

 

 _Eames gets shot in Geneva. It’s a clean bullet through and through, should he be so lucky, and if it wasn’t for Arthur, he would have bled out. He comes to roughly three days later, in Lyon. The lights are bright and the pain is sharp. The chair on his bedside seems untouched but his totem is carefully placed on the side of the table. He reaches for it, weak hand barely lifting, and closes his fist around the still pocket-warm poker chip._

 _Later, later he hears how Arthur had breathed air into him when his lungs collapsed, how Arthur tried to keep his blood in when his heart kept pumping, how Arthur kept him alive when his body wanted to give up._

 _He never says_ thank you _or_ I would have done the same _or_ I love you _— but six months later he meets Arthur in Shanghai._

 _They don't say a word; it's a look from Arthur, another from Eames; it's a patient walk to the hotel room, it's Arthur snatching the key card from Eames' unstable hand and opening the bloody door; it's Arthur pushing Eames against the closing door, attacking, wanting._

 _It's Eames taking and giving everything he can._

 _It's muffled moaning and low groaning, it's the bruising dance of fingers on skin, it’s the slick and hard kisses._

 _It's a soft bed and slippery fingers with tight heat; it’s the shuddering breaths and gnawing need. It's Arthur's touch everywhere; on his skin, inside him and deeper still; it's Arthur's touch in his head, around his chest, on the tips of his toes; it's Arthur's touch everywhere._

 _It's_ thank you _and_ I would have done the same _and_ I love you _._

 

 

As soon as every projection in the immediate vicinity is taken care of, Eames turns to Arthur. His fingers tingle from all the shooting and the strain on his arm, and he holsters up his gun, flexing his fingers. Going down on one knee in front of Arthur, he asks, “Can you walk?”

Arthur lifts his dark red fingers, blood pouring underneath, and gives him a poignant look with an arched eyebrow. “I guess that’s a no,” Eames continues. Then something comes to his mind and he asks, “Is the mark alright?”

“Fine, at least was when they left,” Arthur says and licks his chapped, dry lips.

Arthur’s impeccable hair isn’t so impeccable, since Eames can spot strands sticking up wildly from where Arthur’s been leaning against the wall, and something tight is gripping his chest and something warm is filling his stomach. It’s not a new feeling. “Right,” he says. “We can’t stay here.”

They both know this, since there will be more projections coming, hordes of them, and they’ll be vicious like their predecessors.

Eames shrugs off his suit jacket and spins it quickly in his hands. Deciding to go for the arm piece, he digs his fingers into the material and pulls. The seam gives in and snaps in half, and Eames rips the whole arm off. Giving his attention back to Arthur, he moves closer. Arthur knows what’s coming and he lifts his hand; blood pours on the ground, making the noticeable pool larger, and Eames lifts Arthur’s leg carefully, gets the cloth under and around.

He looks at Arthur briefly, gaze apologetic as he says, “Sorry,” and grabs Arthur’s loosened tie. Opening the knot with one hand, other keeping the pressure on the wound, he straightens the striped piece of silk and gets it around the bandage. He ties the cloths around the wound tightly.

Arthur only grunts painfully and grips his other leg with a white-knuckled hand. After securing the knot, Eames leans back and looks at Arthur again; there’s faint sheen of sweat on his temples and his eyes are bright from the pain.

They stare at one another, a whole conversation going on with their eyes – and it reminds Eames from the old days, from how things used to be between them, and he knows Arthur knows, he can see it clearly from the way Arthur keeps looking at him. Eames swears they’re going to have to talk, sooner rather than later, because there’s no moving forward, not when they’re Arthur and Eames, not when they’re _them_.

Arthur’s eyes are burning his and it’s this electricity, this _pull_ they have between them; have had it since the beginning, and still have it now and keep on having it, Eames suspects. His palm and fingers are resting on Arthur’s leg, the skin underneath the trousers warm – and his whole hand is itching to run on the side of Arthur’s ankle, to feel the smooth skin and the hard bones.

He wants to say something, wants to say something so badly, but he doesn’t. It’s as if his fingers twist on their own volition, because Arthur turns his attention on Eames’ hand, gaze boring into Eames’ twitching tendons.

Arthur is breathing heavily, laboured, and Eames knows something is happening, something monumental and he’s waiting for Arthur to say something, anything – and he knows Arthur is going to, he _knows_ it – and Arthur opens his mouth, inhaling, eyes flying back to Eames’ face, shining and bright and he says, “Eames, I—“

And he can hear a group of projections coming in, footsteps racing along the pavement and Arthur can hear them too, they both do. Eames gives Arthur a wry smile and says, “Right, let’s do this.”

Arthur’s expression changes and he scowls, brows furrowing and mouth turning down from the corners. Eames chuckles and moves closer, lifting his hands and helping Arthur to stand up. Arthur grimaces and sways on his feet unsteadily, his grip on Eames arm damp and tight.

“Come on, now. Hop on,” Eames says jovially and bends lower, patting his own back.

He can’t see Arthur, but the disdain is clear in his voice, “Hop on? What is this, a goddamn joyride?” Eames laughs at that, and then Arthur leans closer, one arm curling on Eames’ chest and the other holding his gun, steadying his movement on Eames’ shoulder. Eames braces himself and Arthur takes a small jump with his better leg – and Eames takes a hold of Arthur’s thighs curved around his hips.

Arthur’s grip on Eames’ shirt is hard as Eames asks, “You ready, love?”

Grunting, Arthur replies, “Yes.”

Eames takes a deep breath, holding onto Arthur. They are a go.

 

 

 _"Please don't." Arthur says and Eames stops, stands still and knows this has to be something important. Walking away after a nasty argument is something Eames is prone to do, especially if there’s nothing left to say that would ease the situation. Bickering and bantering with Arthur is one of Eames’ favourite pasttimes, but outright fighting is never fun – even if riled up, getting angrier by the minute, Arthur is something gorgeous to behold._

 _He turns his eyes once again, and targeting Arthur's sleek frame, he asks, "Please don't what?"_

 _"Walk away," Arthur says quietly like an unwanted admission, bright eyes fixed behind Eames' shoulder; all fight leaving his body as his shoulders sag before tensing again. Bracing himself, Eames thinks._

 _And Eames is looking for something here; something that would make him assured that Arthur actually wants him to stay. Arthur is stoic, unwavering, standing like a picture-perfect soldier – like he wouldn't know how to ask anything for himself, Eames realises._

 _He takes a step closer and reaches his hand, ever so slowly between them, and another step and he's right there, right in Arthur's safe space, hand gently landing on Arthur's tightly coiled shoulder, the muscle hard under his palm. Arthur swallows minutely and keeps staring over Eames' shoulder, like whatever he sees is the only thing keeping him from breaking apart._

 _Eames ducks his head, tries to get eye contact and says, "Hey," voice raspy and a bit worried –because he suddenly is; there is this churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. And Arthur looks at him then, turns his gaze swiftly from the vicinity of Eames’ shoulder to his face._

 _It's like hot and cold spirals of fire bursting in Eames' stomach; this completely unfair hit to his sternum, because, God, the way Arthur looks. The only word that spins in Eames' head is_ shattered _. Arthur swallows again, eyes glittering with what he could never voice, because that much Eames knows about Arthur; he could never voice the way he looks, could never find the words to say all the things Eames can see._

 _And it's like this pressure taking hold of Eames, holding and crushing and the acrid taste spreading in his mouth, the taste of rush and_ need _and Eames wants to touch Arthur, wants to hold him, wants to kiss him, wants to_ reassure _, wants to let him know, wants to—_

 _Arthur lunges at him; strong and wiry arms wrapping themselves around Eames' shoulders, long and narrow body against Eames', and the puff of surprised breath on face before Arthur's lips land on his, feels fast and heavy and frantic. Eames doesn’t spare any thoughts; he kisses back with all he has._

 _"Don't—" Arthur moans as Eames kisses him harder; kisses him like he wants to devour Arthur, like he wants to crawl inside Arthur – and he does, is the thing – and Arthur moans again, "Just, don't—" and Eames sucks on Arthur's lower lip, tastes copper and says, "I won't."_

 _There's this keening sound from Arthur, from himself, from both of them and Eames is punch drunk with the feel and taste and need; there's not enough air, not enough hands, not enough time, not enough—_

 _And he slams Arthur against the wall, his hands hurting from the impact, taking the brunt of it, and his numb fingers fumbling with the hem of Arthur's shirt, wanting to touch the skin under; the smooth skin of Arthur's back – and fuck, Arthur's five o'clock shadow is driving Eames' crazy, his lips stinging with the friction as he bites and sucks on Arthur's jaw and throat._

 _Arthur is shaking, Arthur's hands are shaking as they weave into Eames' hair and_ pull _, hard, and Eames can't help the long-drawn moan breaking from inside, the sound Arthur muffles and swallows, and the hands, God, Arthur's hands; the talented hands are moving on, lower, lower and lifting Eames' shirt. Eames shivers, eyes rolling back in his head with the touch of them; cool and clever fingers skating along his lust-fevered skin, clawing and gliding and holding on._

 _Holding on, he intends to keep holding on._

 

 

Eames steps out on the side of the clearing and sees closer to ten people coming right at them. He trusts Arthur to take care of it, and he turns his head on the other direction. The road leading to the edge of the water looks empty at the moment and he can see the shipyard in front of them, barely. It shouldn’t take too long for them to reach it, get inside and—

Arthur shoots, once, twice, three times, and Eames’ ear is ringing. He has to readjust his grip on Arthur’s legs, needs to hold on even tighter, and Arthur keeps on shooting.

Eames waits until Arthur taps his chest with a fist as a sign to move on, and Eames does, he walks as fast as he can, Arthur tense and ready to shoot. Eames checks the two buildings in sight and decides to go between them, the long, narrow alley giving them cover enough to get on the other side, closer to the shipyard.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes out and Eames keeps on walking, eyesight narrowed to the alleyway ahead as Arthur fires again and again.

The strain is starting to burn his back and he despises himself fleetingly for letting himself get a bit out of shape, feet working with spreading acid. His arms and shoulders are aching as well and he knows they can’t stop, knows stopping isn’t an option so he keeps on walking, hurrying, wanting to run but not taking the risk to jolt Arthur with a gun too much.

“Hold on,” Arthur says loudly, and Eames pauses briefly and Arthur fires few times more and says, “Alright, go.” And Eames does; two steps away from the alley, one step and then they’re between the buildings.

There’s no time to rest so Eames keeps pushing, faster and harder, since Arthur can’t really see what’s behind them. Eames can’t either and then there are shots fired and it’s not Arthur, there isn’t the tensing of Arthur’s body, there’s no jolt and Eames’ heart races in his chest, beating wildly against his ribcage and he goes even faster, practically running now. Arthur’s fist is vice-like on Eames’ shirt, bunching up the cloth and Eames can feel drops of sweat running down his neck.

They’re almost through the alleyway, the rough surfaces of the walls scratching Eames’ elbows and arms, burning the skin and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t. What he cares about is getting him and Arthur—

“Eames,” Arthur says steadily, body getting tauter by the seconds and Eames can see it for himself; can see the projections, tens of them, closer to hundred, forming a half circle around where they’re standing, at the end of the alley. The road is wide and Eames quickly scans the landscape. “Eames,” Arthur says again.

Eames takes a shuddering breath. “I know, I know. It’s bad.” He says, turning his head, cheek and nose touching Arthur’s slick neck, warm and alive, pulse hammering. Arthur pushes into the touch, briefly, and Eames can feel Arthur breathing deep, chest expanding against Eames’ shoulder blades.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. Eames closes his eyes for a second, breathes Arthur in, gives himself the second – but only a second, and then he snaps his head around and readjusts his hold on Arthur again, arms really burning.

He makes the decision.

 

 

 _“Get down, you dimwit—“ Arthur hisses at Eames and shoots few rounds, eyes calculating._

 _Eames glares at Arthur and waits as Arthur shoots some more, moves practiced. “I was already down!” He yells in between the ruckus._

 _Arthur argues, “Were not, you were standing right there out in the open for everybody to— Okay, go. Go, go, now!“_

 _And Eames sprints from their cover as fast as he can, stopping only when he reaches the other side of the clearing, bullets whizzing by. He flattens himself against the wall of the building as something explodes back where he ran from. Ears ringing, he can only see dust, twirls and clouds of flying sand and he can’t see Arthur, can’t see anything else except the brownish air. He coughs and coughs and is about to run back to where he came from, through the wide clearing, making him a perfect target and damned him for losing his gun earlier because—_

 _And then Arthur is there, right next to him, this slim black thing with blotches of grey and brown dust on his ridiculous suit jacket and suddenly Eames can breathe again. And it’s odd because he doesn’t even like Arthur all that much; Arthur, who looks stark raving mad as he attempts to wipe his arms and shoulders. Eames catches his breath and says, “How is crouching behind a gigantic rock_ out in the open _?”_

 _Arthur glances at him sideways and exclaims, “Standing, you were standing and it’s a regular rock!”_

 _“It is enormous and I was most definitely crouching,” Eames says, smirking. “By the way, your suit looks fetching with the camouflage.”_

 _"If by crouching you mean sticking your forehead out and painting a goddamn bullseye on it," Arthur replies dryly, not even bothering to look at Eames. Instead, he swipes at his shoulders again, this time nonchalantly, smudging the dust deeper and further._

 _Eames thinks the scowl on Arthur’s face is ridiculous – although, he’s able to feel Arthur’s pain; suits like that cost a fortune and ruining one in a situation like this must sting. Arthur grunts and turns his attention over to what is happening around the corner._

 _Eames sees the bullet before Arthur does, but before the warning has left his lips Arthur is wincing, pressing a hand against his arm._

 _"Fuck," Arthur says, fumbling with his gun. His hand is shaking._

 _"How bad is it?" Eames asks, but already Arthur is passing the Glock over to him and getting ready to switch places_

 _“Graze,” Arthur grits out. “Just a flesh wound.”_

 _“You’ve been waiting forever to say that, haven’t you?” Eames asks, peeking around the corner. One bullet hits the wall next to his head, grit falling on his face._

 _Eames shoots them out of the situation with few, well-executed tricks. Arthur is stealthy on his side despite the injury._

 _Reaching the safe house, he cleans Arthur’s wound and Arthur never says a word. It is just a flesh wound, nasty at that, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it could have been._

 _“You got lucky,” Eames says as he dabs the alcohol-soaked cotton ball around the edges of the graze._

 _Arthur snorts. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”_

 _Eames takes a look at Arthur’s face, half-hidden under the loose hair curling around the edges. He’s wearing a pinched look and Eames suspects it’s not as much because of the alcohol stinging; it’s because of the failure, of the entrapment and Arthur having to trust someone else, having to trust Eames, of all people._

 _Eames can still feel the weight of Arthur’s gun in his hand and he thinks,_ maybe not, maybe luck had nothing to with it, maybe it’s just them _._

 

 

“Right,” Eames says. “We’re going right.” Arthur says nothing, instead he aims and starts shooting, projections falling down in front of them, one by one and _this is it_ , Eames thinks, _this is it_. He holds onto Arthur and Arthur holds onto him, fist leaving bruises on Eames’ chest, knuckles digging into Eames ribcage painfully.

The noise of Arthur’s gun firing shot after another is deafening, and the sickening sounds the projections make as the bullets hit and as they keel over is making Eames nauseous. It doesn’t matter they’re only projections; Eames doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to shooting anything living, anything resembling people or animals – it’s the wee John Lennon in him, Eames suspects.

Arthur clears them a route through the barrier of projections and Eames pushes forward, lifts his feet over arms and legs and bloodied torsos, over smashed heads and barely alive, reaching hands.

Someone grabs his arm, sharp fingernails digging into his skin, pulling as if trying to tear his skin apart and Eames bites his lip, swallowing down the pain. Arthur tenses again and Eames hears the _crunch_ of Arthur’s gun hitting the face of his attacker, and the hold on his hand slackens. He takes a sprint and gets through the crowd, the shipyard building right in front of them – and dozens of violent projections on their heels.

“Eames,” Arthur says hurriedly. “We’ll never be able to—“

“Yes, I am aware, thank you, Arthur,” Eames deadpans and racks his brain for anything they might use, anything that might be helpful at all – and comes up empty.

The projections are playing dirty again, and he hears shooting as well as fist-fighting, and apparently these are the kind to attack on each other. Eames consider this turn of events as a good thing; it might slow the projections down a bit. A fist or a bullet through one’s skull tends to do that.

From the corner of his eyes he sees movement, and says, “On your nine!” The woman goes down and something clacks on the asphalt, _a baseball bat_ , Eames realises. The projections are definitely getting angrier. He hopes Grayson is almost done with the mark, since they’re honestly running out of time, here.

“Thanks,” Arthur says gratefully, voice surprisingly gentle. “Nicely spotted.”

Eames grins fleetingly, since getting praise from Arthur is always unexpected and pleasant. “How’s the leg?” He asks as he readjusts his grip once again.

Arthur tenses and fires twice. “Seen better dreams.”

“Tetchy.” Eames grins again quickly and concentrates on lifting one leg in front of the other, acid burning in his muscles as if on fire. Reaching the corner of the shipyard building, they go around—

And there are guns going off again and Arthur almost jumps under his hold—

And Eames feels excruciating pressure in his chest and everything’s spinning and fuck, it hurts, it hurts so fucking much and he can’t move, can’t hear, can’t—

He’s been hit. He’s going down.

 

 

 **ii. The bullet under the skin**

 

 

He wakes up in the middle of fire. Opening his eyes, he gasps for breath, thick smoke stings his eyes and his lungs feel like bursting. It feels as if there are dozens of sharp knives lodged into his chest and he coughs, coughs again and there is no air, no air at all, only dark smoke and orange, hot glow. He doesn’t know which way is up and which way is down, doesn’t know where to go, where to start finding his way out – all he knows is that he can’t breathe, can’t see.

Jolting up, head swimming, he tries around with his hand, feeling for surfaces and furniture to guide him out of the room. The bitter smoke claws at his eyes and lungs, and he has to close his eyes and keeps on coughing. It feels as if his whole chest is on fire, burning inside, and his skin is prickling, numbing. He can’t think, can’t think at all – he just knows he has to find a way out. His hand hits something, fingers curling around the shape of a desk corner, and he stands up on shaky legs. Using the desk as a guide, he moves along the side of it, hand releasing its grip before taking hold of the desk again.

He takes a dozen steps before he remembers he should be on the floor, crawling his way outside, and he goes down on his hands and knees. The floor is hot to the touch and he starts crawling as he coughs. He finds the threshold, drags himself on the other side and touches something soft. Grabbing the object, he realises it feels familiar, the time-roughened plush against his sticky palm tickling. He secures his hand around the object and keeps on moving, lifting the plushie on his face, trying to breathe through the material.

The fire crackles behind him dangerously and the flames are licking his feet; he has to keep moving. _Which way, which way_ , he thinks frantically, and follows the empty ache in his stomach that tells him to go left. He moves as quickly as he can; the rough floor hard on his knees, only one hand to use to drag himself across the room.

There are stairs in front of him, going up – and there’s something familiar in the house, but he can’t think clearly, the knowledge of needing to get out stealing the space from every other thought. He has to get out, has to—

And suddenly he’s outside, cold rain whipping against the side of his head, soaking his clothes in matter of seconds.

He blinks once, twice, and realises he’s still holding the bear in his hand and the house he was in is nowhere in sight.

It’s dark, so very dark, and his knees are aching from the crawling. He stands up on shaky legs, coughing to clear the bad air from his lungs. The water runs down his back, under his clothes and it’s cold, he’s cold.

He has no idea where to go.

 

 

He walks and walks until his feet ache, until his head is spinning. All the streets look the same; buildings after buildings. The windows have no lights and there’s no one in sight. He’s all alone.

He ends up roaming in the buildings after a while, checking flats and lobbies and stores alike. It looks like no one’s ever lived in any of the buildings, like no one’s ever visited the stores with full stacked shelves of canned food and bottled water.

The hard rain is making navigating rather tedious and he isn’t sure which way he came. It frustrates him, even if he has no clear destination. He knows he’s looking for something. Perhaps _someone_.

Making the decision to settle down somewhere dry, he chooses a flat for himself to occupy. The place isn’t too big and that’s fine to him, the less space, the less space to fill with things.

He stocks the kitchen cabinets with cans and water, even if he’s not hungry. He thinks he might be, someday, so it’s good to be prepared. The flat has one light bulb in the living room space and he turns it on. His own shadow is huge in the empty room, blackening almost half of the floor and wall.

The rain hits hard against the window and he can hear low rumble from the sky.

 

 

Days stretch into weeks, stretch to months, stretch to years, to eternity. The rain stops sometimes, the ground glistening under the sparse streetlights, only to pick up again, viciously than before.

He finds furniture in the most inconvenient places; a shelf from the back alley between buildings, a table from the middle of a junction of streets. He even manages to find clothing in one store, in this almost-collapsed building. He grabs the jacket and jeans and runs as fast as he can out of the building.

The streetlights and the single light source in his flat are the only things make difference in the endless night. It’s always dark outside, always.

He doesn’t like going out too much, it’s this encompassing cocoon of unconsciousness, this _feeling_ wrapping itself around him, making itself known in his lungs as he breathes, showing itself in everywhere he looks. He’d rather stay inside.

Sometimes when he wonders about the streets, he spots items. Items like the bear still sitting in his shelf, like the aluminium case stuck under his bed he still hasn’t opened, like the black handgun in his drawer that reads Austria, Glock. He brings everything back to his place and dries them carefully, the lonely light bulb flickering aggressively upon him.

He shivers then, because whatever he’s looking for, it’s not anything he has brought back. That means he has to go outside again and again until he finds what he’s looking for.

 

 

Then, one time after he wakes up from a restless sleep, sky rumbling threateningly, he remembers why the house on fire felt so familiar. It’s the house he lived in when he was a child. It’s the house he learned to crawl in, learned to walk in, learned to talk and run.

He remembers the house burning when he was almost old enough to go to school. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night, fear pumping in his veins. Grabbing only his teddy bear, he shakily made it outside, crying for his mother – only to realise he was alone.

The wooden house was shooting flames sky-high, and he could hear wailing of a siren in the distance. But no one else came out. He was the only one.

Just like he’s the only one in wherever he is, too.

Then he remembers the briefcase, remembers wires and liquids and the sting of a needle and his heart is beating wildly in his chest. He almost reaches for the case, secured under him, but he doesn’t.

And the gun, he remembers the significance of the black handgun – closing his eyes he can see pair of hands gripping the gun professionally, decisively and he swallows down the arousal, just like he used to, before. He’s sure of it.

He doesn’t know what to do with all the knowledge.

 

 

  
One day, he goes looking for something again, the air crackling with tension, heavy and pressing. The rain is hard, like it’s almost all the time, getting him wet straight away, and he’s shivering immediately.

He walks along the streets, along the narrow alleys, and suddenly he sees something, sees someone.

There’s a man, standing in the clearing, looking lost. Lost, just like him.

He advances carefully, soundlessly, and gets close before the man spins on his heels, water splashing under his shoes.

The look of shock on the man’s face is intriguing, eyes round and mouth open in an unvoiced question.

The sky rumbles again but the rain slows down, slows into trickles.

“Hey,” the man says. His voice is deep and rough and warm.

He stares for a moment because the man is beautiful, to him. There’s this radiance inside the man and even when wet, the man is attractive. The man’s clothes cling on him, looking uncomfortable, and it seems the man has roamed the streets quite some time.

“Hello,” he says. And then, “Do we know each other?”

The man cocks his head, assessing, suddenly looking sad in a way he can’t comprehend. “Arthur,” the man says. “That’s my name, Arthur.”

He nods and clears his throat, “What—what are you—?”

And Arthur takes a step forward, says, “Something went wrong.”

There are so many unnamed things in Arthur’s expression as he says it, it’s as if Arthur is somehow personal, to _him_. It’s as if he’s something personal to Arthur – and he remembers, remembers flashes, remembers the lingering touch, the smooth skin on his own – and a smile, a wide smile with deep dimples, lips stretched in laughter – and angry, confused eyes – and the touching, the touching he remembers the most. It’s the sheer hope and sadness on Arthur’s face and the way he can’t—the way he doesn’t—

“We’re trying to fix it,” Arthur says with utmost confidence, and he relaxes a bit, feels the confidence in his tight muscles, loosening the knots.

And he says, without knowing why, “I would do the same for you,” and licks the rain water from his upper lip, blinking to clear the drops from his lashes. It surprises both of them, the certainty and sheer will behind the words. Arthur nods slowly, as if accepting what he said, what he let out in the air without any preamble.

“Eames,” Arthur says, as if questioning, taking another step closer to him, shoe splashing in the puddle between them.

“What?” He asks bewildered.

Arthur reaches out a hand and lowers it quickly, as if only now realising that they don’t know each other. Except they do, he can feel it in his body, in his bones, in the blood running through his veins. They know each other even if he can’t remember any of anything.

“Eames,” Arthur says again. “That’s your name; Eames.”

He sucks in air. “No, it’s not.”

And Arthur gives him a sad smile, eyes desperate and lips stretched too tight. “I know.”

 

 

He takes Arthur back to his place; he’s not sure why. All he knows is that he can trust Arthur; it’s the feeling in his gut, the feel of security and resolved loneliness.

Getting rid of his wet jacket, he sits down on the hard, wooden bench that he’s quite sure was made by his grandmother originally, from the wood his grandfather used to chop down. His grandmother was good with her hands like that, a fierce and respectable woman in every way – and he feels the pang of deep-lodged sorrow, of longing to see her again, to touch her wrinkled hands, to play with her rings like he used to.

The rain gets heavier outside, drumming against the windows. He swallows down the unwanted sadness and watches as Arthur makes his way silently around the space of his flat.

Arthur scrutinizes every little detail, memorising as his eyes flick from one item to another, and he stops as he sees the teddy bear, sitting sadly, half-burnt in the side of his shelf. The bear smells still like the fire and it’s covered in soot – but it’s his, it’s his teddy bear and it’s irreplaceable in the army of his collectibles. Arthur takes the bear in his hands.

“Is this—“ Arthur starts, stops. “You still have this, you know,” he says, one dimple appearing in the corner of his mouth. “I always wondered about the lonely bear.”

He stares at Arthur, frozen in place. “It’s the only thing I have left of—“

Arthur turns quickly, interrupts, “No, I get it now. Besides,” he glances at the bear, “I kind of liked the mangy thing, to be honest.”

Still tense, he asks, “Liked?”

Arthur gives out a painful sound, half-laugh, aborted quickly. Biting his lip, he says after a beat, “We know each other. Back up there.” He gestures up in the ceiling, up in the _sky_.

“We, uh, know each other, have known for years and we—“ Arthur pauses, “—we had a thing.”

“Had?” He asks immediately, because the way Arthur—

“Had. Have, I don’t know.” Arthur says and finally looks at him in the eye. There’s no doubt there, no uncertainty. “Have, yeah,” Arthur nods and sits down on the floor gracefully, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back on his elbows.

He thinks Arthur isn’t lying. There’s something in the way Arthur is around him; casual yet wary. He supposes the contrast should be off-putting, but it isn’t. It feels natural, somehow, for Arthur, and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Arthur’s eyes roam in the room, on the floors and walls and ceiling, on the bench he’s sitting on and on the lonely light bulb hanging from up above.

“This is—“ Arthur starts and he can see Arthur is thinking of an appropriate way to say whatever he’s about to say. “This is a bit unexpected.”

“Oh?” he asks, wondering.

Arthur’s lips quirk. “Well, I thought your London loft was sparsely decorated, but this is something else.”

 _London_ , he thinks and for a moment his head is filled with images – with memories – of a different life, of a different time and place. The images are gone as soon as they come, flashing and the emptiness they leave behind is cold.

The air is filled with a smell again, with the same smell. The heavy rain quiets down suddenly, like it was just cut off. The silence is loud in his ears.

“Can you smell that?” he asks and looks around for the source. Nothing is out of ordinary.

Arthur’s eyes are alert, immediately. “Smell what?”

He sniffs the air until it hurts his nostrils. “It’s like— I can smell electricity.”

Arthur stills. “What?“

“It’s this—static in the air, like the air is crackling with it,” he says quickly.

“Right,” Arthur nods. “Has that happened before?”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah.” The smell is getting stronger and he can feel his skin goose-bumping with the static. Opening his eyes he sees Arthur looking at something intensively.

Following Arthur’s line of gaze he sees it’s fixed on the silver case still under his bed, untouched. Arthur’s gripping the bear in his hand and his other hand is fisted. The muscle on his cheek is jumping.

He says, “That’s—“

“Do you know what that is?” Arthur interrupts, eyes piercing upon his face.

“I haven’t—no.” The rain is getting heavier again, the sound of it swallowing his harsh breathing.

Arthur keeps his eyes on him, flickering as he thinks. Then he takes a breath, asks quietly, “Do you even want to?”

He thinks about it; thinks about the gun in his drawer he doesn’t feel like touching at all, thinks about the teddy bear in Arthur’s hand, and thinks about maybe, finally finding the thing he’s been looking for all this time.

He thinks about getting closer to Arthur, going down on his knees for Arthur, touching Arthur, letting Arthur touch him.

He swallows. “I—“

And suddenly, again, they’re outside. He’s sitting on a bench and Arthur’s on the ground and still holding the bear. The air is still heavy and the rain is hard.

Arthur gets up slowly, looking around.

He doesn’t know where they are. And if the history is to repeat itself, he’ll never find his way back, either. Just like with the house he woke up in, before, ages ago.

Arthur spins around few times, stills, and squinting his eyes in the darkness he says, “Come on, then. Let’s see if we can find some sunshine.”

 

 

 **i. The beginning**

 

 

“You really can’t remember anything at all?”

He feels as if he should know this man, Arthur, standing in front of him; feels he knows Arthur, deep down, knows the sound of his voice sleep-rough, knows the way Arthur touches him, reverent, hotly. He feels his mouth forming the shape of Arthur’s name, elegant and well-known, intimate – but he’s not there yet, not far enough to make it sound right.

Rivulets of water slide down Arthur’s face, hair matted against the shape of his head. The brown eyes are familiar, even if he isn’t able to place them, and the face staring back at him is _warm_ and he can’t rationalise any of it.

There’s no logic, no certain memories, nothing concrete to hold on to. There’s only the unquestionable trust and knowledge of not being alone anymore.

“I—I don’t—“ he says, his words almost drowned by the hard rain. He blinks the water from his eyes. “I know I’m supposed to—I just—“

The streets are dark and the buildings are dark and he can smell electricity, always the crisp electricity, and Arthur gives a small, private smile and says, “That’s alright. We have time.”

 

 

(It’s the dead of the night. The wind is whipping his face and the prolonged contact with the rainstorm is goose-bumping him, and he feels bone-deep weary. He thinks he’s had enough of the dark and the rain and the endless night and he wishes for sunshine, wishes for warmth and dryness. He wishes for the buildings to have lights and for the stormy ocean to be calm, wishes for green-leaved trees and white cotton-clouds on the clear blue sky. He wishes for high, snow-topped mountains and fields of colourful flowers; he wishes to change the course of his life, of this place, of everything.

Next to him walks the man, _Arthur_ , he reminds himself again –Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, so familiar; he thinks there might be something there, something slippery and fragile and he’s not pushing it, he’s not, he’s letting it come to him when the time is right— quiet and thoughtful, equally drenched and soaked to the bones, yet looking sharp and refreshingly wonderful.

Arthur looks at him then, wide-eyed and surprised, and he can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, melting into the brown; can see the short stubble on Arthur’s chin and cheeks, on his throat; he can see the way Arthur’s hair curls at the nape of his neck – he can see so many things he couldn’t before, and they’ve stopped walking now, and the rain has stopped too, and Arthur’s amazed look turns into a brighter one, shining, smiling. He smiles back because maybe, maybe he’ll be fine. Maybe they’ll be fine, he and Arthur.

He turns his gaze on the horizon, smile firmly in its place—

It’s the end of the dead of the night; the end of the night altogether.

It’s the beginning of a dawn.)

 

\- Fin


End file.
